Claws 33

Tylha

The Tapiola has beamed down science facilities - lab units and prefabricated shelters. A hastily-assembled outpost is taking shape on the hillside above the steadholding. I stand outside it now, with T'Pia, and the Klingon commanders.

It's the first time I've seen T'Pia in person. The red-haired Vulcan is small and neat, almost finicky in her appearance, brisk and businesslike as she goes about her work.

I am content to let her. I am bruised, grimy with dust, and still reeking of the tellurium compound. But, then... so is everything.

"Rrueo supposes it is a deep-seated thing," Rrueo says. The Ferasan looks every bit as beaten-up and bedraggled as I do - perhaps more so. "Sulphur and tellurium both have the same valence as oxygen, so creatures that metabolised oxygen... had to learn, very early in the evolutionary process, to notice and avoid those substances. More than an instinctive aversion... a chemical aversion...."
  
"Quite." T'Pia doesn't wrinkle her nose, but I think if she wasn't Vulcan, she would. "With the disappearance of the - overlord - the tellurium compound has reverted to its normal stereochemical structure, and thus binds normally with our nasal chemoreceptors."

"Or, to put it more simply," says Rrueo, "now, it stinks. And worse than stinks - Rrueo can confirm that the telluric masses beneath the surface are breaking up and decomposing. They will release toxic tellurium compounds into the surrounding soil. Rrueo does not know if the colony will survive this."

"We will render all possible assistance," says T'Pia. "That is a point of which you should be aware. While your ships were out of communication, the Undine launched a surprise attack on Earth and Qo'noS. In the aftermath of that, an armistice has been agreed between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. The war, effectively, is over."

R'j turns sharply towards her, silvery eyes flashing. "What?"

"You will, naturally, wish to confirm this with your own command authorities."

R'j's mouth works. "Naturally," she says. "And of course, I will do so. But it is only a formality. S-s-s-s-s. If one more thing were needed to make this whole enterprise an exercise in abject futility -"

She stalks angrily away, muttering Mlkwbrian phrases that the universal translator either can't, or won't, convert. T'Pia quirks one eyebrow.

"She is aggrieved," says Rrueo. "She desired a glorious success for her cunning plans.... She often makes cunning plans. Sometimes, they work, but more often the universe... regrettably fails to cooperate."

"Indeed," says T'Pia.

"If there's an armistice in place," I say, "we can bring in Federation help - I have contacts in the disaster relief agencies, they can assess the ecological damage, maybe work out ways to help -"

"That would be useful," says T'Pia. "My preliminary assessment, though, is that too much of this world's arable land is now compromised. The most probable outcome is that the Tiazan colonists will need to be evacuated."

"At least the Empire will have troop transports free," mutters Rrueo.

"They may well be needed." T'Pia's tricorder beeps. She pulls it from her belt, consults it. "Excuse me. There is a problem with the geophysics probes, and I must attend to it." And she marches off, stiff-backed, neat and highly polished. I feel like a reject as I watch her go.

"Geophysics," says Rrueo. "That reminds Rrueo... how is Harley Haught?"

"Dr. Haught? Oh, he's doing well - we transferred him to King Estmere's sickbay, and he's on the mend. My medical officer did have a few comments, but -" I don't think Samantha Beresford's remarks about "ham-fisted Klingon butchers with duct tape and glue" really bear repeating.

"Medical officers are never satisfied. Rrueo is glad to know Harley Haught is recovering." Rrueo runs one claw over her drooping whiskers. "One cannot carry a man all day and stand guard over him all night without developing a certain proprietary interest."

"Thank you for that, at least," I say.

"Rrueo suspects you would have done the same, in the circumstances. Allied, against the unknown... or the Undine...."

Something catches my eye; a movement, on the hillside below us. I turn my head. A small figure is plodding up the hill - the child, Nejje. Rrueo and I exchange glances. We go down towards her.

The girl's face is wan, tearful. She looks up at us. "Everything smells," she says. Down here, the garlicky reek of the tellurium compound is stronger. In the fields, it must be hardly bearable.

"I know," I say. "I'm sorry."

"Everything smells, and the plants are all brown, and dying.... What happened? Was it the Grau? The book said everything would change -"

"Little one." Rrueo squats down on her haunches, so that her head is on a level with Nejje's; she regards the child with a sort of compassionate gravity. "It was not the Grau, it was all of us. We did not, perhaps, intend to do this thing... but Rrueo is not so sure that she should regret it."

Tears gleam in Nejje's eyes. "I don't understand."

"We have brought you a gift, little one. It is not a gift you wanted, perhaps, but it is a great one. We have overthrown your overlord, and we have brought you freedom. Freedom is a good thing, a great thing, but it is never a comfortable thing. Listen to Rrueo, little one. The overlord no longer controls you, and you can make your own choices from now on."

"But what good is that?" Nejje cries. "What use is it to be free, when the plants are all dying, and the water is foul, and -"

"We can help," I say. "We will help... that's my people's way. To help, but never to control."

"Freedom is never easy," says Rrueo. "You can make your own choices, but those choices may be hard. You must be strong, little one. Rrueo can see things... Rrueo knows you have it in you to be strong."

"Strong enough," I add, "to decide for yourself what's written on the next page in that book."

Nejje looks from one to the other of us, her face woeful. Then, she seems to reach a decision. "I will be strong," she says, and steps forward, wrapping her arms around Rrueo's neck, burying her face in the blue fur. Rrueo submits to the embrace, purring softly.

After a minute, Nejje lets go, and steps back. "Should I thank you for the gift?" she asks.

"Thank us, or curse us," I say. "Or maybe both."

"That is the way, with this particular gift," says Rrueo.

Nejje nods gravely. Her tears seem to have stopped. "I will go back to my parents," she says, "and the Steadholder, and we will - decide what to do." She turns around and marches back down the hill. There is a definite air of determination about her.

Rrueo watches her go. "Rrueo has never borne a child," she says pensively. "The exigencies of military life always seemed to preclude it.... Sometimes, Rrueo regrets - Well. No matter." Her tone brightens. "In any case, R'j is Rrueo's friend, and sometimes that is very like having a difficult child. Rrueo must go to her, and soothe her ruffled feelings." She straightens up, and throws me a sketchy salute. "Until we meet again - ally."

And she lopes away. I watch her go, for a moment. Then I turn, and go off to look for my own problem child.

---

I find Ronnie in the small building we've rigged as a makeshift mortuary. She is gazing down at the stasis tube that contains the withered body of Martin Hudson. She looks up, briefly, as I come in, says, "Oh. Hi," and resumes her contemplation of the corpse.

I stand beside her, silently.

After a while, Ronnie says, "He never liked me, you know. Martin. He thought I was too young, thought he should have got the centre seat himself... oh, he never said it, but I knew. I knew."

"I suppose we can't all be lucky with our execs," I say.

Ronnie turns to me with a funny look on her face. "Mmm, yeah," she says, and falls silent again.

Another long pause. "Have you figured it all out yet?" I ask.

"No. Yes. Sort of." Ronnie shakes her head. "There was something inside the Rift, that much I get. It was an extra-temporal intelligence, something like the Bajoran Prophets, fair enough, it would pretty much have to be, living in a temporal anomaly, right? Dear God," she adds, "don't let the Bajorans know you've killed something like one of their Prophets. You'll never hear the end of it, and your ears will be black and blue."

"They're blue already," I point out.

"Whatever. Why are Bajoran religious rites so like Ferengi oomox? - Don't answer that."

"The Rift entity," I say, "somehow attached itself to a human being."

"It needed a human mind," says Ronnie, "to make sense of linear time. I think. And the whole business with the tellurium compound... it needed some specific deformations of normal spacetime to stay in this reality. That's what I guess, anyway. The warp physicists can have a field day working out all the details. That's what we pay them for." She shakes her head. "And, somehow, it wasn't enough. The creature needed something more, something else, to keep its anchor in the real world."

"Being extra-temporal," I say, "it could already see the point at which the - anchor - would fail. A crisis point in its own timeline."

"Yeah. And it needed someone else who'd been through the Rift. And... I might very well be the last one left. Tallasa and Saval and the others wouldn't count, we broke the darn Rift on our last attempt. That book of prophecy even said as much."

"So that must have been what Q meant -"

"When she said it was all about me, yeah." Ronnie scratches irritably at the skin by her Borg implant. "Except it wasn't all about me, was it? Turns out I was just the side show, distracting the beastie while you and Buxton went in through its back door and threw the ring into Mount Doom. Sneaky little hobbitses."

"Um, what?"

"Oh, look it up later. Point is, Q was - well, I don't know if she was lying, exactly, but she wasn't telling the truth the way I'd understand it."

"Q never does."

"Yeah." Ronnie sighs noisily. "Other stuff I don't understand. How did it affect Two of Twelve? Did the spatial distortions screw up my Borg neural circuits, or what?"

"Is she -?"

"Oh, back to normal. Now. Maybe a bit quieter. It's coming to something, though, when I've got a voice in my head telling me to go and get myself assimilated, and it's a relief to hear it."

I say nothing.

"And another thing," Ronnie goes on. "The bits of stuff out of my past. Why? Was it Martin, influencing the thing, trying to send me a warning? Or the thing itself, trying to bait me, trying to make some sort of mystery it knew I couldn't resist? Or both? Or maybe neither - some sort of communication, in a way we couldn't understand. Wuther-quotle-glug."

"Um, the translator didn't get that last part."

"Wasn't meant to. That's the point. Entities with no point of correlation with our intelligence, so everything they say is just... wuther-quotle-glug. Universal translators are all very well, provided you're all from the same universe to begin with." She shakes her head.

"Martin Hudson wasn't from another universe," I say.

"No. No. Just an ordinary guy, Martin."

"So what did he mean? When he said the other one was cleverer?"

Ronnie stares at the corpse in the stasis tube. Chronologically, I remember, she is two hundred and eighty years old. Just at this moment, she looks it. When she speaks, her voice is quiet and hollow.

"Wish I knew, kiddo. I wish I knew."

Claws 32

Ronnie

I lose my footing as the deck lurches beneath me, and I fall hard on one hip and go sprawling. The ship is rocking, alarms sounding everywhere -

"Gravimetric shear," says Saval, imperturbably, from his console.

"Trying to compensate," says Jhemyl. "Helm is responding -"
  
"Impact damage and stress on structural integrity field," Ahepkur reports from the engineering station. "Consistent with - sir, we're in atmosphere!"

"On screen!" I bawl, as I scramble to my feet. "Get me a visual!"

R'j's puzzled face vanishes from the main viewer, to be replaced by a vision of fleecy clouds tumbling through a clear blue sky... tumbling, then steadying as Jhemyl gains control. In one corner of the screen, I make out the shape of the Anar, impulse engines flaring as she races towards space.

"Are they all there?" I ask. "The other ships? Saval! Where the hell are we, anyway?"

"Working on that, sir. All our companion vessels are on sensors." Saval raises an eyebrow. "Interesting. I can confirm we are in the atmosphere of Tiaza Zephora."

"Um," Leo Madena pipes up, "multiple comm signals coming in, sir."

"Oh, lord. All right. Who've we got?"

"For a start," a rasping voice sounds, "you still have me. Do you still require shooting?"

Well, I'm not putting that one to the vote. "I'll take a rain check, at least till we know what's going on. Saval! What's going on?" Unobtrusively - I hope - I slap the side of my Borg ocular implant. Two of Twelve is making a noise, a low ongoing moan, like the drone of a hung-up telephone.

"Interesting," Saval says again. "Sir... we were in a comparatively low orbit when we - departed - from Tiaza Zephora's vicinity. I believe... given the normal processes of orbital decay... and assuming we made no compensating manoeuvres... we are exactly where we would have been, had we remained in orbit."

"You mean, the extra-galactic space, the game board, the dark tower, they were all just some sort of - illusion, or what?" I ask.

"Possibly a generated spatial anomaly or inclusion," says Saval. "I will need time to assess the data."

"I have something -" R'j's voice. "A distress beacon, on an obsolete Klingon frequency. I must attend to this - Goroke out."

"I'm picking that up too, sir," says Leo. "Uh, more than one, now. Maybe something's happened on the planet?"

The blue sky is fading, now, into the deep safe black of space. "See if you can raise our people on the ground."

"Yes, sir. Uh, incoming call from the USS Tapiola - "

"Oh, hell, stall her." T'Pia will only have questions, and they will likely be the same questions that I have, so how can I give her any answers?

"Tapiola is in-system now," Tallasa reports, "standing out in high orbit, three light-seconds from the planet." Playing it safe. Good Vulcan.

"Sending automated acknowledgments to Tapiola," says Leo. The kid's learning, I'll give him that. "And I have a signal from the surface -"

"Put that one through!" I leap into the command chair, trying to ignore some warning twinges from my bruised hip.

"This is Lieutenant T'Shomep calling vessels in orbit." I shoot a glance at Saval. Is there a flash of relief for an instant on that bewhiskered face? No, I don't think there is. He, too, is a good Vulcan.

"Falcon here. What's your situation?"

"Communications are being routed through this station until normal functions are restored," T'Shomep's calm voice replies. "We have one combat casualty, stable but requiring additional treatment and assessment when possible. There have also been changes to the local environment, the nature of which are still under assessment." The voice fades out for a few seconds, then comes back. "I am in communication with Vice Admiral Shohl. She will no doubt wish to debrief with you thoroughly -"

"Not while I have my strength she won't."

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Just me being silly. Is Tylha OK?"

"Vice Admiral Shohl reports herself uninjured. She has one message for you, though. She would like to know if the name of Martin Hudson is familiar to you."

Claws 31

Tylha

The stonework is audibly creaking around us, now. There is a grating noise and dust filters down from the ceiling.

"Maybe we should turn back while we still can."

"If Rrueo is correct in her estimates, we have already passed that point." She sounds as if she's confident of her estimates. I suppose it helps to be confident of something.
  
The stock of my crossbow feels hot and slippery in my sweating hands. The roof of the subterranean corridor groans and releases another drift of dust. It should be solid, reliable, a sturdy arched construction. It should bear any amount of loading... but the whole structure seems to be rotting from within, and nothing can be trusted any more, now.

The stairs spiralled down to a small, square cellar, and from that, this tunnel led off. The light seems to be stronger, at its end, and in any case it was the only available way to go. We advance slowly, crossbows at the ready, and my eyes and antennae are straining at the dark, trying to make out the world around me.... I suppose Rrueo, with her nocturnal predator's eyes, might be doing better than me, but I can manage. Andorians in tunnels are not helpless.

Though we seem to be reaching the end of the tunnel, now. An arched entrance looms up before us, and beyond it... a room.

We pass through the arch cautiously, both of us blinking now in brighter light. The passage must have run most of the way through the hillside; above us is a dome of blue glass, and beyond it the sky. The room is round, and paved and walled in black basalt, and at its centre -

"A statue?" Rrueo says dubiously.

It squats there, black and massive, and it is in the shape of no sentient species I know. The head is long, shaped something like a shield, with rows of what might be eyes along the edges. The thing is sitting, I think, on some sort of throne, and it is impossible to make out details of the body, but it has two arms, and they grip the arms of the throne with immense taloned hands.

I look at the thing, and my skin crawls. It has the same black stony surface as the rest of the room, but there seems something different about it, some hint of movement or vibration -

Then the shield-shaped head moves, and the many eyes open, black and glistening. "You are here," says a deep, resonant voice.

"Tylha Shohl," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "representing Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets -"

"Rrueo-Thinker, Rrueo-Captain," says my companion, "officer of the Klingon Empire."

"You are here," the voice repeats.

And then a new voice says, "It doesn't understand."

The new voice is thin, ragged, whispering. I look around. I can't see the speaker. "Who are you?" I ask.

"You are not the Grau," the deep voice says.

"No time," says the other voice. "Please. You have to kill it. Kill it now."

I sense, rather than see, Rrueo tensing beside me. "I feel your mind," says the deep voice.

And Rrueo screams, a high wailing sound like a soul in torment. She wraps her hands around her head, then drops to the floor, curling up into a foetal ball, whining all the while.

"Telepath," says the whispery voice. "Telepath - she couldn't take its mind. Its mind is different, so very different...."

"What are you?" I demand. I heft the crossbow in my hands. "What are both of you?"

"Your words are meaningless. The Grau must come."

"It doesn't know I'm speaking," says the whisperer. "It doesn't understand... people, things... linear time. Please. You have to end it. It knows that everything changes now."

"How?" I ask. "Why? What do either of you mean?"

"The Grau must come."

"She can't!" I shout. "She's not here! We don't know where she is!"

"It knows this is a decision point." The whisperer again. "It can see - all sorts of things - but it can't see past this point -"

The book of prophecy. The book with blank pages after Ronnie's face. "What are you?"

"I am I. That is all you can know."

"It used me. Used me... to be here... in this dimension. Like the compound. All part of the key that gives it access to our reality. I did what I could.... Please. You have to kill it. I'm so tired...."

I don't know if I can trust the whispery voice. But the deep one... that is the voice of a monster, I have no doubt of that now. The overlord. The ruler and user of this planet.

I whip up the crossbow and shoot. There is the solid thump as the bolt is released, and the thump as it strikes the target -

But the target is not the thing on the throne. As soon as the bolt shot from the bow, a black, monkish figure shimmered into existence between me and the creature... to fade as quickly out of being again, as the bolt slams into it.

I curse, and let the bow drop. On the floor, now, shadows seem to pool and spread... and then they rise swelling and gaining substance, becoming solid, black-robed figures.

They are not all the same. Some are taller than others, and the terrible claws on their arms come in different sizes - some are sword blades, a metre or more in length; others are short daggers, hooked and barbed. They shamble towards me with their arms outstretched.

They can't touch me - can they? Best not to take the chance. I draw the mek'leth from my belt. "Ushaan," I whisper between clenched teeth, and I spring forward to meet the attack.

The mek'leth is heavy, clumsy, not as balanced and swiftly responsive as a real ushaan-tor blade - but that hardly matters. The creatures flinch from me as I approach, and their substance parts and shrivels to nothing at a single slash from the blade. But for each one I destroy, another rises up out of the stonework to replace it -

"Cycles and cycles," the deep voice says, inanely.

"This isn't the way!" The whisperer's voice is urgent.

Whoever the whisperer is - they're right. I can keep killing these things until I die of weariness myself, and the overlord can keep bringing more of them to life. This isn't the way, indeed.

I slash at another one, watch it fade to nothing, then I dive for the abandoned crossbow. I work the lever quickly, spanning the bow -

"Cycles and cycles," says the deep voice again.

"No, no!" The whisperer. "The thing can predict that, too - you saw that -"

It can predict the path of a crossbow bolt, materialize another - servitor - to block it. But I'm taking a chance that it can't predict what I do next -

I pull another bolt from my belt quiver, make to fit it into the bow -

Then I fling the crossbow at the nearest servitor, and leap for the throne with the bolt clenched in my fist. The thing rears up, its taloned hands rising from the arm rests, but too late, too late to stop me driving the bolt, with all the strength of my arm, into the shield-shaped skull.

For a moment, I see the substance of the thing shiver and roil, see what might be something beneath it all -

Then the world changes.

---

The light is suddenly bright, the blue glass dome gone from above us. The walls are gone, too, and the floor is nothing but dirt. I have a fraction of a second to appreciate this, and then the blast hits me in the back, hurling me down, surrounding me with a swirling, choking cloud of dust.

And, suddenly, there is a stench, a nauseous mix of brimstone and garlic, filling my nostrils -

I gasp, and choke, and pull myself upright. My ears are ringing, my antennae tingling. The tunnel, I realise, the tunnel behind us. It collapsed, sending out a bellow of dust and dirt and air, knocking me down. But that doesn't explain the smell.

I look around. The dust is starting to settle. Dimly, I see Rrueo's dirt-shrouded form on the ground. I move towards her, quickly at first, then more carefully and slowly as sudden bruises make themselves felt. I kneel beside her on the ground, and touch her arm.

"Ahhh." She raises her head. "Ach! What is that smell?"

"Are you all right?"

"Rrueo... believes so." She winces, braces herself on the ground, clambers unsteadily to her feet. "The creature's mind was... too much for Rrueo. What happened?"

"A fight. I stabbed it with a crossbow bolt." I manage a shaky laugh. "It was protecting itself against missile weapons, and hand-to-hand weapons. I figured... using a missile weapon hand to hand might just confuse it long enough. I think I was right."

"This stench is not getting better." It smells foul enough to me; I can't imagine what it's like to the Ferasan's sensitive nose. "What is that?" She points.

I follow her pointing finger. There is something lying on the ground - I can see it, now the dust is settling. I take a cautious step towards it.

A body. At first, I can't make out what species it is. Then, I see how it is dressed... the fashions of Earth, but Earth of maybe a hundred and fifty years ago. Human. A human body, but old, fantastically old, withered and aged beyond a normal human lifespan.

"The key. It - he - said something about a key. About the chemical compound and...."

"The compound." Rrueo spits. "That is it. That is the stench. It has reverted - the tellurium bonds are normal, now, and like most tellurium compounds, it reeks."

"Somehow," I say, "this ties in with Ronnie Grau. I think -" I try to think. "It must have been something that came through the Stygmalian Rift. It latched on to a human form, somehow, to give it a toehold on our reality. An alien intelligence from a temporal anomaly - its mind must have been completely alien -"

"Rrueo does not need to be told that."

I bend over the body. "This might be one of Ronnie's old crewmates. Someone who came through the rift with her. Maybe they've even got some identification -"

Then, as I stoop over the wasted form, the shrivelled eyelids slide open over yellow, filmed eyes. Straining sinews stand out like cords on the neck as the man raises his head, dry lips writhing and working -

"Tell Grau," the whispering voice gasps, "warn her - the other one was cleverer."

Then the breath rattles in the throat, and the head drops back suddenly to the ground. The impact is enough to dislodge age-blackened teeth from the wasted gums, and they rattle back into the dead mouth.

I look up at Rrueo, but the Ferasan's eyes show, she understands no more than I do.

Claws 30

Ronnie

*/*almost there---
soon, very soon---*/*

The last line is in sight.
  
We've been plodding through space for what seems like eternity, slowly creeping along the path on this damned game board. After that one attack, there has been little or no sign of our... opponent; at one point, we had a distant sensor contact, and R'j launched a volley of subspace torpedoes at it, and after that... nothing.

And now we're coming up on the curving line that marks the inmost edge of the board, and beyond it is the safety, supposedly, of the dark centre, and I have no idea what comes next.

*/*end of the game---
pieces get taken off the game board---
put back in the box---*/*

Well, that sounds encouraging, thanks a whole heap. I stare at the viewscreen, trying to make out something - anything. A box would be good, even. A box would be something, at least.

"Middle of an Andorian chess board is just a black space, right?" I say.

"Thev lin," says Tallasa, "and yes."

I grunt. "Well, I suppose it's consistent...." Then something catches my eye, and I mutter to myself, "Maybe not," and lean forward to peer more intently at the screen.

In the distance, way past the rim of the game board, unknown stars are shining... but, in the empty space at its centre, there are other lights, slowly brightening. Dim, translucent, glowing falls of light, like an aurora frozen in the sky. As the Falcon crawls across the last line, they brighten into a complex labyrinth of light, filling the board's black centre, extending up and down... I don't know how far, I can't see.

"Well, that's different, anyway," I say. "Saval, get me a scan on that. And all stop, I'm not going any further until I know what it is."

"Sir?" Saval sounds puzzled. Vulcans don't often sound puzzled. I'm sure they often are, they just don't like to admit it.

"On the screen. Let me know what it is."

"There's nothing on the screen, sir," says Tallasa.

Now, that is enough to make me stop and stare at her. Then I glance quickly at Saval. He is doing the Vulcan eyebrow thing in my general direction. Puzzled, definitely puzzled, possibly with an option on bemused. And I know just how he feels. "You can't see that?" I ask Tallasa.

"I see the... board," says Tallasa. "And the stars. Sir, what can you see?" Her humour her and make no sudden movements voice is on.

"Uh," I say. "I'm seeing, um, a sort of...." I'm at a loss for how to describe it. "A sort of, um, like a column of lights. Or maybe a three-D maze. Sort of thing. All... flows of light. Curtains." I make vague gestures, trying to trace out the patterns I see on the screen -

- and listening to Leo Madena, who is saying very quietly, "Medical to the bridge, please, urgent."

*/*oh boy are you in trouble now---*/*

Can it, you.

Then I look around and realize I've done the out-loud voice thing again, which has really not helped the situation one little bit. Saval is standing up, and he is flexing the fingers of his right hand in a particular way, that suggests I'm going to get my neck pinched if I don't behave. Tallasa is standing, too, and her expression is troubled.

"Not you," I explain. "Two of Twelve is playing up, you know about that. But Two of Twelve is an auditory thing - I don't get visual hallucinations, you know that, too -"

"You haven't before, sir," says Tallasa.

"Look. I don't know what's going on here, but I'm sure I'm seeing what I'm seeing. All about me, remember? Q told us?"

"Q told you, sir," says Tallasa. And of course there was no one else in the ready room at the time. Oh, God, I do not need this right now.

The turbolift doors hiss open, and Zodiri comes in, tricorder in one hand and hypospray in the other. "Look, dammit," I say plaintively, "can we just consider the possibility that something is going on, here, before we strap me into a canvas jacket? Something weird? Something else weird, that is, because we have had plenty of weird already today?"

*/*keep talking---*/*

"She's seeing something on the screen," Tallasa says.

"Yeah," I say, "on the screen. If it was a hallucination, wouldn't it, I dunno, leak out around the edges or something?"

"How long since you last slept?" Zodiri asks, as she waves her tricorder in the direction of my head.

"I dunno. A while."

"Forty-two hours," says Tallasa. Well, she would probably know.

Zodiri grunts. "Be bloody peculiar if she wasn't hallucinating by now," she says. "But it's the usual story... her Borg implants are regulating her brainwaves and filtering her blood for fatigue toxins, so it's only when they give out that she's got real problems...."

"Any abnormal brain activity?" Tallasa asks.

"Well, of course there is," says Zodiri. "I'm not seeing anything worse than usual, though. Checking her visual cortex now."

"I'm right here, you know," I say pettishly. "I'm in the room."

"Funny spikes in the hypercomplex cells," says Zodiri. "Hmm...."

"Sir," says Tallasa, "if it is necessary to relieve you on medical grounds -"

"Don't know about that." Zodiri taps the harmless end of the hypospray against her teeth. She is evidently thinking things over. "It's possible.... What we see is largely a product of the visual cortex, it's the bit that handles all the processing. It's possible that her altered brain is processing something - some subtle cue, or some such - that the rest of us can't register."

A grouch, but a fair-minded grouch. "On the basis that I'm not off my head," I say loudly, "can we check this thing out, somehow?"

"How?" asks Tallasa. Good question. Damn it.

"I don't know," I say. "The Northern Lights are in my mind, they guide me back to you. Saval, can you, I dunno, run some multi-spectral scans or something, see if anything matches up with... whatever I'm seeing...."

"How can we know, sir?" Oh, Tallasa is just full of good questions today.

*/*need a clue?---
bottom right---
top left---*/*

I don't trust Two of Twelve when she's like this, but I look anyway. The sweeping immaterial curtains of light are taking on a more definite shape, now - to me, at least - and as I peer closely at the screen, I can make out something -

"Saval, scan grid coordinates.... three four eight by two seven niner. One degree radius."

There is something. Some kind of... discontinuity... in the star field. As if one tiny disc is showing a different shade of black.

"I am registering -" Saval quirks his eyebrow. "A spatial discontinuity at those coordinates. And beyond it, there appears to be... a different star field in view." He blinks. "I have a possible match."

"Signal from the Goroke, sir," says Leo Madena.

"Stall her. This might be important." I look at the other corner of the screen, now. It's as if... the curtains of light form a loosely wrapped cylinder, and one end of it is in the spatial discontinuity, so the other end must be - where?

And why can't anyone else see this?

*/*you must just be lucky I guess*/*

"Confirmed," says Saval. "There is a recognizable asterism beyond the discontinuity. Stellar cartography databases place it in the Delta Quadrant, some four thousand light years past the current location of the Jenolan Dyson Sphere. I am correlating with records from the USS Voyager."

"The Delta Quadrant," says Tallasa. "Not exactly home, but -"

"Scan another sector," I say. "One five by three zero. Same radius."

"Sir," says Leo, "Goroke is pressing us for a reply."

"Oh, lord. All right. Put her through."

The image in the viewer fades out, to be replaced by the charmless green face of R'j Bl'k'. "We were wondering," she says with an air of barely restrained impatience, "what suggestions you might have for our next step. Since we appear to have arrived at the end of the game -"

"And the prize is a free trip to the Delta Quadrant. Apparently." I fill her in. "So, one end of this thing is rooted in a gateway to the Delta Quadrant, and the other - Saval?"

"There is another spatial discontinuity at those coordinates," Saval says. "I am not able to determine its location."

"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "So. It seems we have a choice. I am cutting in Commanders Vihl and Oschmann on this channel - we should discuss this."

"There's nothing to discuss," says Tallasa firmly. "We have a way back - all right, a way back to the Delta Quadrant, but it's a way out of this situation, and in my judgment we should take it. Sir."

"Wait, though," I say. I'm trying to think. "What about the other one? The other end?"

"We don't know where it leads, sir," says Tallasa.

"It leads deeper into the mystery," says R'j. "S-s-s-s-s. Our opponent, it seems, is challenging us. Do we take the consolation prize, of a journey to the hinterlands of our own galaxy, or -?"

"Right. Right. Makes sense."

"We have to consider the safety of our ships and our crews." Anthi Vihl's voice, over the comms link. Good traditional Andorian military thinking.

"Yes, but -" Aha, thinks little Ronnie to herself, I have a lever I can use here. "Taking the exit to the Delta Quadrant means we have no chance of getting back to Tiaza Zephora in any reasonable time frame. Effectively, it means abandoning the teams on the planet." Including Tylha Shohl. Willing to take that chance, oh love-smitten Andorian zhen?

"It is a valid point," says R'j. "Besides... fleeing from the situation does not resolve it. It is my judgment that we should seek the next step in this... puzzle."

"Right. Yeah. Me too. And I guess, since we're the senior officers here, what we say goes, yeah?"

"That is certainly the normal procedure in the KDF. Starfleet may be more lax."

"Duly noted," says Tallasa. "Sir, should we follow - whatever it is you see on the screen? Or just drive straight for the discontinuity?"

"I've had enough of scenic routes," I say, slumping down into the command chair. "Drive on, and don't spare the horses."

---

Time passes, and I fret. Zodiri comes up beside me with that hypospray, and I look sidelong at her, and she eventually thinks better of it and puts the thing away. I turn to look at Leo. "'Medical to the bridge'," I quote at him. He cringes.

"Sorry, sir."

"So you should be. Put it on a console button, next time, one you can just press quietly without alerting me. There's no point asking for trouble."

"Uh." He looks confused. "Uh, yes, sir."

I turn back to the viewscreen. The light show is getting brighter - to me - as we approach the hole in space. I should sit back and enjoy it, maybe. Not everyone gets a whole aurora for their own private entertainment. Not without better hallucinogens than I can afford, anyway.

"Can you see anything through that hole, yet?" I ask.

"Continuing to scan," says Saval. "I have possible mass signatures. To be detectable at this range, I suspect the body or bodies in question would have to be very massive - on a planetary scale, perhaps."

"Well, we lost a planet, didn't we? Maybe we can find it again."

At least Falcon is taking the lead, on this one. R'j could outrun me, but since I'm the one who can see... stuff... she is content to follow me in. The Goroke is keeping pace with me, a few kilometres off my starboard bow, with King Estmere maintaining a similar position on the port side. The Anar is hanging back a little behind us. The siege destroyer could, actually, outpace all three of the heavier ships, but she took a fair bit of damage during the fight, earlier, and I can't blame Oschmann for being cautious. She will have some explaining to do, anyway, once she hands the ship back to Rrueo.

"Approaching the discontinuity, sir," says Jhemyl from the helm. Well, I can see that.

There is something on the screen, beyond the veils of light. Something big, and black, and dully gleaming....

"Contact with the discontinuity in three... two... one... now," says Jhemyl. I don't feel anything. Not even a shudder. But the lights are all behind me, now, and I can see -

I swallow, hard. "Child Ronnie to the dark tower came," I whisper.

It hangs there against a dim background of distant stars, and it is vast, vast. I've seen the Vault at Haakona, but that was nothing to this thing. It is made of something like black basalt, except there can't be that much basalt in all creation, and it rears up against the stars like, like - I don't have words for it.

"Scanning," says Saval. "The structure appears to be somewhat over two hundred thousand kilometres long, roughly cylindrical, with a diameter of some seventy thousand kilometres. Albedo and surface characteristics consistent with... worked stone. Obviously, that is not possible. Attempting further analysis -"

"Are those doors?" asks Tallasa.

"Oh, boy," I say. They are, indeed. There is a sort of gatehouse at the base, and it has doors, doors made of black iron, vast doors. "All stop," I order.

"Sir?"

I gesture irritably at the screen. "Remember that prophecy thing? The gates of Gre'thor? There's certainly room in that thing for Klingon Hell, and I am not opening it up if I can possibly avoid it."

The gateway continues to grow on the screen. "All stop," I snap irritably.

"All engines stopped," Jhemyl reports. "Thrusters at station keeping."

"But we're still getting closer." I don't like this. "Reverse impulse. Back us away a bit."

"Reverse impulse," Jhemyl confirms. She taps at the helm console, then taps again, harder. Her antennae droop. "Sir, helm is not responding."

No wonder she's wilting, this keeps on happening to her. My mind is racing, my mouth is dry. "It wants us here. It's bringing us in." For an instant, I shy away from the unwelcome conclusion.

"Confirmed," says Saval. "We are continuing to drift towards the object. Impact in twenty-three minutes, if current course and speed are held."

"And the gates of Gre'thor will open, and everything will change." I stand up. "Don't think so. Not on my watch, anyway. Leo, signal the Goroke."

I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this at all. But Q said it was all about me, and I don't see any other way out.

R'j's face appears on the viewer. "Got a job for you," I tell her. "Don't worry, you're going to love it."

"Yes?" She doesn't sound convinced.

"The Falcon's being carried towards that thing, somehow. Well, that's what it looks like, but I think the point is, I'm being carried towards it. And I'm supposed to open the gates of Gre'thor, right? I'm guessing that would be bad."

R'j says nothing, but there is a look in her silvery eyes which tells me she knows where I'm going with this.

"So I'm taking a shuttlecraft out of here," I say. "I'm going to take it about four kilometres ahead of the Falcon, and -" I swallow, hard. "Once I'm there, I want you to lock all your weapons on the shuttlecraft and open fire. Don't stop until it's completely destroyed."

Claws 29

Tylha

I'm not sure I've ever ridden on an animal that wasn't holographic. I try not to let any disquiet show, though, as we head out of the steadhold and towards the hills.

In any case, the riding beast is quiet, biddable, obedient. I mention this to Rrueo as we start up the slope.

"Naturally," she says. "Rrueo is applying a mind-hold to the creatures. Rrueo should have thought to do this yesterday - it might have avoided some difficulties."
  
"You can do that?"

"To animals." The Ferasan's jade-green eyes narrow. "And it requires concentration."

So I keep quiet, and ride, climbing the hill at a gentle pace. Mentally, I review our resources. Field rations for three days, water... the crossbows and mek'leths hanging by our saddles... and very little else. No phasers, no disruptors - not even tricorders. We don't want to carry power sources that might be turned against us. I was dubious, even, about wearing my combadge - but it seems a necessary risk. We need communications....

And our main asset.... We have doused ourselves liberally with the sweet-smelling black stuff; my hair feels matted with it, and the smell is strong in my nostrils. What it must be like to Rrueo's more sensitive nose, I can't imagine. More of the stuff gurgles in flasks carried in our saddlebags. If it is a weapon... if it is an effective weapon... we have enough of it. I think.

We reach the crest of the first hill, and I rein my riding beast to a halt. Rrueo stops beside me, and we both stare.

"That was not there yesterday," Rrueo says, eventually.

The tower stands there, black against the horizon. I shade my eyes, trying to gauge size and distance. It is perhaps sixty or seventy metres in height, perhaps a third as wide, fashioned of some black stone. There is what appears to be a gatehouse protruding from the base....

"Well," I say, "it's there now. Let's get to it." I apply my heels to my mount's flank, and it moves forward at a slow walk. Rrueo follows suit, a moment later.

"I suppose we're lucky to have picked this spot," I mutter, more to myself than to my companion. But she answers anyway.

"Several possibilities have occurred to Rrueo. One is, simply enough, that Dahar Master Juregh chose correctly when he identified the largest settlement he could as the planetary capital. The steadhold is not particularly prestigious, but it was the best that he could find. Another possibility is that the tower moves, or that there are many towers, which retract into the ground when not required. That would be partly consistent with what we have seen. Another possibility...."

"Yes?"

"Is one which Rrueo does not like. That we are at the overlord's tower because we have been - manipulated here. It would be a formidable job of manipulation - to fetch us all here, to this point in time and space, would require the management of many factors. You are here because Shalo chose you and Grau as a known quantity to deal with - that required that you and she should meet at Bercera IV, which in turn required that that atrocity should take place. The chain of causality is long and far-fetched - but Rrueo worries that it might not be beyond the ability of the sleeping giant to manage it."

"And that bothers you," I say.

"On many levels. Firstly, the power and intelligence of our adversary, thus revealed, is frightening in itself. Secondly -" Rrueo's mouth twists in a snarl, revealing her fangs. "Rrueo has no wish to be a pawn," she spits. "Rrueo is not a beast to be controlled -"

"Like these riding beasts?"

"Ach! These beasts - they are a case in point. Rrueo is no longer exerting her mental control. The habit of obedience is already inculcated in them, now. Just as the sleeping giant has made the inhabitants of Tiaza Zephora obedient to its will. As a matter of habit." She shoots a sidelong glance at me. "That bothers you as much as it does Rrueo, admit it."

"You know it does. Sentient beings shouldn't be - domestic animals."

"Rrueo is aware of Federation notions of freedom and self-determination. The Empire, too, has such notions - perhaps differently expressed, but they are there. Imperial citizens are free to seek out their own honour. These are not."

"The Empire imposes a number of restrictions the Federation doesn't, though," I point out.

"The Federation has its own forms of conformity. Do not attempt to deny it, you will only look foolish."

"Maybe. I don't think any of us sees the Empire as a simple despotism, anyway." It's my turn to shoot a glance at her. "Why are you a part of it, though? Do you believe in the Imperial ideals? Whatever they are?"

"Honour, glory, personal achievement - yes, these things drive Rrueo, they always have. The Empire provides a context in which they have meaning."

"You could have honour, achievement - even glory - in the Federation."

"Rrueo does not doubt it. Rrueo knows her own capabilities. But Rrueo was born Ferasan, and has no desire to change."

"Very Ferasan," I comment. The tower is getting closer. It is only my imagination, though, that makes it loom. "Even to referring to yourself in the third person...."

"It is not a universal habit of speech in Ferasan culture," says Rrueo. "It is, however, Rrueo's habit."

"Well, no culture is monolithic," I say. "You don't see me calling myself sh'Shohl, for example. That always struck me as a silly affectation."

"Useful, for those of us less able to discern Andorian gender."

"Anyone who can't tell the difference between a shen and a zhen, in my book, doesn't need to know." Are we talking about this because we don't want to talk about the tower, that grows closer with every pace our mounts take?

"Rrueo earned her name," Rrueo says. "I earned my name, if you would prefer it. Rrueo chooses to remind people of that. What name have you earned, Tylha Shohl?"

"Different culture. I was given my name. I earn... whatever it means." I look up at the top of the tower. It is ringed with crenellations like some mediaeval fortress. The gateway in the base is clearly distinguishable, now; a square structure with doors of what seems to be black iron, graven with abstract designs. "When people say my name... I want them to think well of it. I want it to mean something... honourable."

"You come from a warrior culture. Rrueo suspects there is less between you and the Klingons than you believe."

"We were a warrior culture."

Rrueo sniffs. "Rrueo has never yet heard of Andorian pacifists."

"My parents were."

"Really?" She looks genuinely surprised at that. "Rrueo fears you must be a disappointment to them."

"I'd prefer to live in peace. But I can fight."

Rrueo eyes the tower. "You may have to."

---

Nothing moves as we make our final approach to the tower. There is no sound of bird or beast in the wilderness; the only movement is ours, the only sound the hoofbeats of our mounts, the jingling and clattering of our riding harness. The tower stands there, dark and monolithic. It has no windows, and nothing moves at its top.

I frown as we reach the base. Rrueo's idea, that the thing retracts into the ground, isn't borne out by the state of the ground around it. There is no sign of disturbance. It looks as though the tower has always been there.

"Close enough," Rrueo says. "We should dismount."

I swing myself out of the saddle, becoming suddenly conscious of an ache in my thighs as I do. "What about the beasts?"

Rrueo rummages in her saddlebag, produces a thick wooden stake, sharpened at one end. She drives it into the ground with one fluid, powerful motion. I'm reminded of the wiry strength of those Ferasan muscles. "We will tether them. They will not stray - and enough of the compound clings to them that they should be safe."

I take my crossbow from the saddle, hang a mek'leth from my belt. The weight of the clumsy weapon on my hip is a slight reassurance. "Well. What do we do now?"

"Rrueo does not see a doorbell. Perhaps we should knock."

I take one step towards the door, then glance back at Rrueo. She seems irresolute, scratching one ear and frowning. "Rrueo is wondering whether it might be better to wait for nightfall," she says. "The sleeping giant appears, from what we know so far, to be nocturnal...."

"What? Oh, come on," I protest. "It can't be. Your carriers were destroyed on the planet's day side - and the rotation of this world can't be a factor in whatever it was it did at Duselva WX -"

"Probably you are right. Rrueo is just finding excuses." She squares her shoulders. "Rrueo freely confesses that she does not want to go through that door."

"Neither do I. But we're short on alternatives." I take a deep breath, and another step forward -

There is a faint grinding noise as the iron doors open, swinging inwards. Beyond them, I see very little - empty space, a roughly paved stone floor -

"I don't know if that's a welcome or not."

I take another cautious step forwards. It is dark in there, but I'm Andorian, I don't necessarily need light. My antennae twitch in anticipation. I hear Rrueo move behind me, following, just as slowly and cautiously as I'm moving myself. The entrance gapes in front of me. Darkness, and stone, and - something else.

"There's someone there."

"No," says Rrueo. "Not someone."

I move forwards again, and the dark shape comes into focus. It is as Rrueo described the overlord's servitors: a squat, humanoid figure in a cowled cloak. It stands impassively in the shadows beyond the open doorway. I nerve myself to take another step.

"Hello? Can you hear me? Can you understand me?"

It gives no sign. I take another step.

The claws extend from its arms with a soft, organic hissing sound. They glint in the dim light. Two monstrous blades, the length of my forearm, protruding from each arm. The creature makes no other movement.

Then there is another noise. Despite what you see in various cultures' adventure movies, bows and crossbows don't make any juddering, twanging, or whooshing noises. There is just a thump as the tension releases in the bow, and an answering thump as the bolt strikes the target -

The servitor staggers, and the whole surface of its body ripples, like water coming to the boil. It stands there, shimmering, for an instant or two, and then, suddenly, it is gone, as if it had never been. There is a clatter as Rrueo's crossbow bolt falls to the stone floor.

I turn to confront her. She is already working the lever to span the bow. "It wasn't making any hostile moves -"

"Those claws looked hostile to Rrueo." She slots another bolt into place.

"If you're right, it couldn't have harmed me -"

"It certainly cannot now. Besides, we needed to know." She gazes at me levelly. "It was not a living creature to begin with. Rrueo would know. Even if its mind was shielded, Rrueo would know."

There seems no point in arguing. I walk into the tower, over the spot where the - creature - stood. There is no trace of it. The crossbow bolt, black and gleaming with the chiral compound, lies on the stone floor.

I look around. The interior of the tower seems to be hollow; the walls rise up and up until they are lost in gloom above me. Ahead of me, though, there is a long rectangular gap in the stonework of the floor. I step forwards. Stairs, many of them, going down. I narrow my eyes. Is there a faint glow, coming from somewhere below?

"Only one way, then," Rrueo comments, and her voice echoes in the vast stone enclosure. She stoops to pick up the crossbow bolt from the floor. Then she squats down, and studies the stone pavement intently.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"Perhaps nothing," says Rrueo. She stands up. "Well. Let us take the only path available, then."

We start off, down the stairs. My antennae are tingling, reading the air currents, tasting the feel of the space about me. There is a light, somewhere below, I decide. A dim, bluish light, coming from somewhere... somewhere far, far down. The stairway turns, forming a wide spiral, and I have the distinct impression that it goes deep.

We make one slow, careful circuit, and are about to continue, when Rrueo stops and turns. She looks upwards, and makes a savage spitting, growling noise which I think must be a Ferasan curse.

"What is it?" I ask.

Rrueo curses again. "Rrueo wondered when she picked up the bolt... but said nothing. If your eyes cannot cope with the darkness -"

"They can. Up to a point."

"Look closely, then. Here." Her clawed finger stabs out. I kneel and inspect the stone step, where she's pointing.

At first, I see nothing, but my eyes are still adjusting to the dimness. Then, I make it out. There is a slight but distinct impression upon the smooth surface... no, two impressions.

My eyes widen. Footprints. Mine and Rrueo's.

"We're leaving marks on the stone...."

"If only that were all. Look closely."

I look. The footprints are clearly evident, now - how could I possibly have missed them? Then the realization hits me.

The prints are getting more and more distinct. I run my fingertip over the stone, and I can feel the marks. Where our feet have trodden, the footprints are sinking into the stonework....

"The chiral compound," says Rrueo. "This place is the creation of the sleeping giant, just as the servitor being was. And contact with the compound is... cancelling it out. Instantly, when I shot the servitor... more slowly, with the mere touch of our bodies on the stone. But Rrueo sees no sign of the decomposition stopping...."

A faint creaking, groaning sound runs through the stonework. Rrueo's lambent green gaze meets mine.

"Rrueo thinks we have a time limit."

Claws 28

Ronnie

*/*you can run but you can't hide---
you can't even run---
better give up now---*/*

Oh, shut up, Two of Twelve. God, I preferred her when she was spouting Borg propaganda.

I huddle in my command chair and watch the lines on the screen. Insubstantial lines of light. Marking out spaces on a game board, a game board bigger than Jupiter.
  
*/*pawns in a game---
nothing but a pawn---*/*

Shut up. Anyway, R'j told us - at length - that "pawn" was the wrong translation. She is an enthusiast for her board games, it seems. Enthusiast being a fancy way to spell bore, if you ask me. Anyway. The better translation, she says, for my piece's name is the "merchant". Travels only on permitted routes, only at a permitted speed, but brings a precious cargo home at the end of the journey. King Estmere, apparently, is the "pilgrim", travelling a weary road and never looking back till the goal is attained. And the Klinks? Their pieces translate as the "guardian" and the "paladin". I think R'j really fancies herself as a paladin.

*/*a pawn---
expendable---
first to be sacrificed---*/*

"You should get some sleep, sir," says Tallasa, firmly.

"Can't sleep. Clown will eat me. What about this green line, then? When do we cross it?"

"Seven minutes, at current course and speed," Jhemyl reports. There is a dull annoyance about her voice at that last word, and I know why. My ship feels hobbled, crippled by this thing that is holding her to a snail's pace.

"Right. Right. So I have a nice refreshing sleep for another seven minutes, before whatever happens next... happens."

"Sensor scans are clear, sir," says Saval.

"There's no guarantee we will be jumped the moment we cross the green line, sir," says Tallasa. "If our - opponent - is playing thev lin with us, it will take time for them to set up an attack. It's a very slow-moving game, usually." She doesn't sound like she's a fan.

"I prefer games where there's a better chance to cheat," I quote, moodily. "What's the Goroke up to?"

"Scouting ahead," says Tallasa. "Coming about now, in fact - returning to our position." R'j has been using her battleship's unimpeded mobility to run constant patrol patterns around us. Like some sort of green, hostile, whispering mother hen. Now there's a mental image I didn't need.

*/*physical form of species is irrelevant---
any creature can be subsumed into the collective---*/*

Give me a break. I sit twitching in my chair, counting down the minutes, the seconds. The approaching line shows dim green through the yellow border of the game space. Somewhere to port and starboard are the red lines that say my ship's allowed to plod on down this route. The marker lines are holographic projections - we think, though we can't find a projector - and they have roughly the same diameter as Greater Manchester, and they're still so fine as to be barely visible, at the scale of this... board. It took us long weary hours to get this far....

The green line sweeps by, beneath us. "So," I say. "Enemy territory. Well, worse enemy territory. Look sharp, everyone."

"Sensors are still clear," Saval reports.

Yeah. Right. It took, what, half a microsecond for the entity to flick us clear out of the galaxy? Those sensors can fill up again any moment, I'm sure of that.

"Sensors clear. Maintaining constant vigilance and three-sixty degrees spherical scan," R'j's voice rasps across the comms channel. I don't think she's any happier about this situation than I am. Though how she expects to maintain constant battle readiness for the hours and hours it will take us to reach the centre of the game board, I don't know. Do */*species 10118*/* need sleep? Tylha didn't say. It's at times like this that one misses one's dependable Andorian sidekick. I suppose I've still got Tallasa and Jhemyl.

The Anar floats beside us, her weapons spines facing forwards, easily keeping pace with my hobbled ship. King Estmere follows a little way behind us. Since the carrier effectively can't reverse, our plan is to keep her back until we're damn sure we know which direction she needs to move in. Stupid damn game.

When it comes, the attack is instant. One second, space is empty but for our four ships; the next, the thing is there on the screen, on my tac console. I up the magnification, and the image leaps out at us. It isn't a starship, or at least it doesn't look like one. It looks like a dragon, long sinuous body and vast vaulted bat-wings, and golden light shining from its eyes and its mouth -

"It's emitting collimated high-intensity nadion radiation," says Saval.

"You could just say 'firing phasers'," I grumble. "Tallasa! Get me a firing solution! Leo - what the heck, we're supposed to be Starfleet, see if you can open a channel, OK?" Not that I think for a moment it'll do any good.

"Hailing on all frequencies, sir," says Leo like a good boy.

"Three minutes to engagement range at current speed," Tallasa reports. "Sir, Anar is moving forward."

The siege destroyer is not just moving, it's leaping. Cannon fire crackles from its disruptors, and light flashes from its forward torpedo tubes. At this range, the cannon fire is mostly for show, but the gravimetric torps mean business, all right. The Goroke is coming about. I'm not sure what R'j is up to, but I'd guess she means business too. Behind me, there are blips on the screen. King Estmere is launching her frigates. Previous experiments have shown us that the Mesh Weavers aren't restricted in speed like their mother ship, and now they're streaking forwards to add their firepower to the rest of the group's....

I don't like this. One - dragon - against four starships? Either it's a very powerful dragon, or it's some kind of set-up. Neither one's good news.

Then something else appears on the screen, and it's clear - set-up. For a moment, I'm not sure what I'm seeing - spines and tendrils seem to boil out of space, and at first it looks like an adapted destroyer or battlecruiser decloaking... but the tendrils stretch for kilometers, and there is no central warp core or main fuselage, just a writhing knot of what appear to be thorns - wrapping themselves about the Anar.

"What the hell are these things?" I wonder aloud. The Anar's shields flare, and the spines dig through them, tearing into the armour beneath. "Anthi! Commit your frigates to the dragon, and follow me in to cut the Anar loose!"

The Falcon turns, sluggish, crippled. King Estmere's frigates scream past us, tetryon beams and thermionic torpedoes slamming out at the monster before them.

"Some sort of biomechanical construct on a vast scale," Saval says. "I am unable to interpret these readings as yet. Sir, the spines are polycarbonate edged and vibrating at high ultrasonic frequencies -"

They will saw the Anar into chunks if we let them. Already, I am seeing air and flames spilling from gashes in her flanks. "Get me a targeting solution! Go for the roots of those things!"

Tallasa and Jhemyl cut in our weapons at maximum range. Tetryon beams glisten in the dark, striking at the impossible thorned tentacles, clawing at them. The Goroke is moving in, too, her Elachi crescent cannons sending scything bolts of destruction at the tendrils. Anar's own disruptors are hammering away -

"I think I see a weak point, sir," says Tallasa.

"Hit it."

The tetryon banks scream as Tallasa pushes the last erg of power out of them, trying to make them effective at this extreme range. Green fire blisters through space beside us as King Estmere brings her plasma arrays into play. The goat's-skull shape of the Goroke turns nimbly, her crescent weapons focusing in on the same spot. There is flame, and a haze of escaping air, and I'm sure it's not all coming from the Anar. Slowly, slowly, my ship draws closer.

Something gives. All of a sudden, the tendrils break apart and scatter, flaming fragments spraying through space. The Anar pulls clear, her armoured flanks sadly gouged and scored, but her disruptors still spitting defiance.

"Frigates are overpowered and must disengage!" Anthi Vihl's voice. "The dragon is turning to bear on the Falcon!"

I swear. Our turn in the barrel. "Reinforce forward screens, and put everything we can spare into the torpedo launchers!" The tetryon banks are in danger of overheating, but if we can feed this beast enough plasma torpedoes, that should keep it off us. Should do. I hope. I've never fought a dragon before.

The dragon plunges at us, seeming to knock King Estmere's battered frigates aside as it pounces. Golden phaser light sprays from its mouth. The Falcon shudders.

"Shields down to seventy-two per cent," Jhemyl reports.

"Fire!"

Tetryon beams stab through the dragon's breath. Plasma torps crash out of our launchers. The viewscreen is an abstract glare of coloured light - the tac console is sparkling with interference, too. The deck lurches beneath me, and there is the flash-bang of a transient overload on one of the consoles.

"Shields at forty-eight per cent."

"Keep hitting it!" It must be hurting worse than we are. It has to be.

It is. The interference suddenly clears, and the colours on the screen fade for an instant - then are wiped out in one dazzling glare of white. Apparently, dragons have warp cores. Who knew?

I try to take stock of the situation. King Estmere is moving to recover her damage frigates, the Anar is heading slowly towards her, trailing vapours from her hull breaches. The Goroke -

The Goroke is fighting something, and I don't know what. The battleship's crescent cannons are hammering out a constant barrage at something that looks like a cloud, a vast thunderhead blotting out the stars, illuminated fitfully by the green lightning of the crescent bolts. Something emerges from the cloud, a writhing ribbon of energy, something that clings to the Goroke's shields and tears at them.

"Steer three eight five mark four. Support the Goroke." I wipe my forehead. "Just aim for the middle of whatever the hell that is, and hope we hit something."

Fire lashes out from the tetryon banks again. The coolant is getting perilously close to the red line. The thundercloud is illuminated with lurid light now from both ships' weapons. I can't tell what's inside it, or even if there is anything inside. A line of light whipcracks against our forward shields, and my ship rocks.

"Fore shields down!" shouts Ahepkur from engineering. "Attempting to restore!"

"Hard about!" I yell. "Fire aft batteries!" I would drop web mines, too, but how do you capture a cloud?

The Goroke has deployed her auxiliary vessels, the two drone craft that nestle in her stubby forward wings. One of them is sending out a beam, some kind of sensor interference signal, into the centre of the cloud. I hit the tac console, feeding commands to the aft beam arrays, trying to target whatever that beam's aimed at.

Whatever it is, it blows up. One moment, dark cloud spitting lightning bolts - the next, a brilliant flash, and the clouds clear away, as if they had never been. Whatever we were shooting at, it's just a cloud of white-hot fragments, now.

"All ships!" R'j rasps across the comms channel. "Scan for an enemy inbound on vector six zero mark four! If I am right -"

She doesn't finish the sentence. "She's right," Tallasa reports. "Something coming in on that vector. Big, and moving fast."

"Get me a visual!" The main viewscreen blurs and judders. Oh boy. Get me a different visual, because I really don't like the look of this one....

The thing is round and glistening, and at least two kilometres across, and there is a dark pit in its centre that makes it look like a gigantic eye. Around its rim are shapes - distinctive shapes. An eye with antiproton cannon eyelashes. Heavy antiproton cannons.

"Come about!" I order, and "Get those forward shields back up!"

The thing is coming in hard and fast, on the line R'j predicted. I can see the dire glow of those cannons powering up. Scattered, battered and out of position, our four ships are going to have some trouble with this thing.

Then another voice sounds across the comms channel: Oschmann. "I've got this one," she says, almost casually, and the Anar moves forward as she speaks. Green light is flaring around the siege destroyer's weapons spines.

"Move in," I snap, "support the Anar." I can tell what she's planning - and it might just work; the giant eye is coming in fast, and that means its course is easy to predict -

Easy enough for Oschmann to get the Anar into position and fire the disruptor javelin.

Green light flows down the siege destroyer's spines and gathers into a bolt of searing intensity. It lashes out, spearing into the approaching monstrosity, hitting just at the rim of that dark pit that might be a pupil. The globe yaws wildly and veers off course, a yellowish cloud of something spilling from the impact point. Streamers of fire wrap around the Anar as she twirls back into her defensive configuration.

Our ships move forward. The enemy is damaged, but we don't know if the wound is mortal. Plasma torpedoes scream out of Falcon's and King Estmere's tubes; the bolts from the Goroke's cannons slash across space.

Scarlet light sputters back from one of the thing's cannons, splashing off King Estmere's screens, but the globe is already deforming and collapsing as our weapons pound it. There is an explosion, then another, as the antiproton containment in its cannons fails - and then it is all over, the globe breaking apart into flaming debris and a yellow cloud of matter spreading out across space.

"Scanning," Saval reports. "Nothing on screens except wreckage -"

"There will be no more, for the present," R'j announces over the comms channel. "The classic Shiran th'Kiv engagement - a risky stratagem, and costly if misjudged. Our opponent misjudged it," she adds with evident satisfaction. Well, aren't we lucky to have the resident chess nerd on our side? Bet she always got picked last for the netball team though.

"Anar has taken substantial damage," Oschmann's voice says. "If there is time to halt and make repairs -"

"There should be," says R'j. "We have eliminated our opponent's four most powerful pieces. The Shiran th'Kiv engagement is not often so one-sided - but, then, the game with live pieces is often different from the abstraction of the board game. Goroke, Falcon and King Estmere will be more than equal to the single mobile piece that remains. Make all necessary repairs."

"And then, on to the centre?" I say.

"On to the centre," R'j confirms.

*/*goal defined---
target specified and attainable---
bet you don't want to know what's in there though---*/*

Shut up.

Claws 27

Rrueo

The old man glowers at me from his throne. "The beasts are valuable," he says, "and already you have lost two."
  
"Rrueo regrets the loss," I say, as patiently as I can manage. "You will be compensated for it - you may have Rrueo's word on that."

"If you regain contact with your ships," the younger man, Tallaun, snaps at me.

"Other vessels are no doubt on their way," I say. "And if they are not, if we are trapped on this world... then we must come to some arrangement, which will include recompense for the riding animals. You have Rrueo's word." These people were Klingons, once, surely a pledge of honour must mean something to them?

But Steadholder Sharm merely sits on his throne and continues to glower at me. "Why should we help you?" he asks, eventually. "You come here, you bring with you the Grau, and that other one - you seek to meddle in our affairs -"

"Rrueo seeks to understand the nature of your - overlord - and to reach an accommodation with it." Though I do not believe this to be possible. The sleeping giant is too alien, too powerful... but I must not admit this, not here.

"Accommodation." Tallaun's voice drips scorn. "You seek military advantage, in a war which is none of our concern. And you would trample our people into the dirt, if the overlord did not protect us -"

"You're already trampled." A new voice: Tylha Shohl's. The Andorian stands in the entrance to the hall, her scarred face grim. All heads turn to her - my own included.

"What do you mean?" Tallaun demands.

Tylha walks forward at a steady, measured pace. "This overlord of yours controls you," she says. "Every detail of your lives. We've heard how your population is regulated, we know how your technology is limited - this creature holds your entire culture in a static mould, and it's not for your benefit. This entity owns you, Steadholder. Like one of your own riding beasts."

Is this Federation diplomacy? It does not sound like it. But, whatever Tylha is planning, I agree with her words - and will add my own. "It is true," I say. "You live like cattle, and you should not. You are Klingons."

"We were," says Sharm. "Our ancestors rejected the false militarism of Klingon culture -"

"And that took courage," says Tylha. "The courage to step outside of your culture, to reject its pressures and choose your own path. I know. My own parents once made a similar choice. Your ancestors had courage, Steadholder. Do you?"

The old man glares at her, and his hands clench on the arms of his throne. For a moment, it looks as though he is about to rise - then he slumps back.

"Courage for what?" he asks, bitterly. "Do you not know that the overlord cannot be defeated? When the servitors came as claws, they wiped out Juregh's forces in seconds - they screamed, I still hear them scream, as they realized their weapons were useless, and as the claws tore their flesh, and the servitors - fed. Now your ships have been swept from the sky. What can you accomplish, against a power such as that?"

"We don't know. Yet," says Tylha.

I move to stand beside her. "But we will find out," I add. "You have Rrueo's word on that, too. If you will not provide the riding beasts, we will walk to the overlord's tower. And if the creature beats us down, we will crawl towards it. But we will not stop, short of death."

"Death is the certain outcome of any challenge to the overlord," mutters the old man.

"Is it?" asks Tylha. "Let me ask you something, Steadholder. We've seen my friend's face, drawn in your book of prophecy. We know it predicts that a change is coming. Tell me - what is on the next page?"

Sharm glares at her. "You have seen it. You know."

Tylha nods. "Nothing," she says. "Nothing but blank pages. No outcome is certain, Steadholder. Your prophecies are all ended, now, and there is nothing left but the future we make for ourselves."

Sharm stares at her for a long moment. Then he says, "You are wrong... most likely. But if this is the death you seek - we will not impede you. And if you are right... though you are not... then, perhaps, a change should come." He turns to Tallaun. "Prepare two riding beasts for them."

---

Outside, in the hot midday sun, I say to Tylha, "Very eloquent."

"He needed persuading."

"Rrueo is no Federation legalist, but Rrueo has heard some talk of a Prime Directive -"

"It doesn't apply. Not in this case." Her face is thoughtful: behind it, the watchmen pace their courses around the battlements of her mind. "Starfleet doesn't interfere in the natural development of native planetary cultures - but this is a Klingon colony, and in any case, its development isn't natural."

"Rrueo concurs. The Empire cannot use the sleeping giant. And the Federation's ideals, it seems, will not permit any dealings with it."

"I suppose we might want to... understand it. Figure out how it works, what sort of being it is. But as for dealing with it -" Tylha shakes her head.

"Rrueo suggests that our first priority is escaping from it. Though, since its reach is astronomical, that may prove a problem. Still, if Rrueo may turn to practicalities -?"

"I've set things up in the processing building." Tylha stalks off towards the old building with the chemical plant. "The unwanted compound is caught in a sort of sump," she says, "and is destroyed by incineration. The tellurium-rich ash is collected up, and I guess it's returned to the soil around the khala plants at some point. You accidentally tapped into some sort of overflow line, and I've managed to draw off about twenty litres of the stuff from that." She pulls a face. "I am not looking forward to smearing it all over me."

"Better that, than having these servitors feed off us. How is Harley Haught?"

"Recovering. We've managed to hold off any bacterial infections from the wounds to the gut, and we've carried out all the surgical repairs we can. Ideally, I'd like to have him fully checked out in King Estmere's sickbay." Her mouth becomes a tight line. "If we get to see this overlord, that's one thing I'll be asking for."

We reach the door of the building, and Tylha pushes it open. Inside, it is cooler. Tylha gestures to the concrete floor, where equipment is stacked. Bottles of black fluid, whose cloying scent already fills my nostrils - and other things.

Tylha stoops and picks something up; a length of wood, basically, with a stiff metal strip as a crosspiece. "I figure the overlord can deal with energy weapons," she says, "but a simple crossbow - coated in the compound, shooting bolts tipped with the compound -"

"A good thought. You know how to use such primitive weapons?"

"My parents didn't reject all Andorian traditions. There were wild animals on my home planet - we needed some primitive weapons for hunting and self-defence." She lifts the bow to her shoulder, sights down its length. "I made two of them. And I borrowed a couple of those Klingon meat cleavers, too."

"We will not be completely defenceless, then. Rrueo is glad of that."

Tylha hefts the weapon experimentally in her hands. "I have to admit," she says, "if we're going up against something that makes starships disappear... this doesn't entirely fill me with confidence."

Of course, she is right. But what else can we do?

Claws 26

R'j

Is she mad? I ask myself, and then chide myself for a foolish question. Of course she is - but there may be method in her madness, and I see no other alternatives.
  
I turn to Laska. "Comply."

"Sir -"

"S-s-s-s-s. Comply."

She takes a deep breath. "Lower shields. Power down all weapons." I turn to my tactical display. The Falcon is already defenceless; as I watch, the symbols for King Estmere's shields wink out, followed by the Anar's.

"Well," the Andorian Vihl comments over the comms link, "at least, whatever happens, it will be quick."

I do not have the heart to disabuse her. But this offers the best chance for the Fek'lhri to take us alive, and if that happens - well, it will be many things, but quick will sadly not be among them.

"Movement in the Fek fleet," M'Rel reports. The fresh scar on his cheekbone is angry, inflamed.

"Details?"

"Still closing. Weapons range in three minutes... but...." The Klingon frowns. "One of the dreadnoughts has altered course...."

I study the display. M'Rel is right, one of the black towering shapes is moving at an angle to the rest... as I watch, another, too, seems to shift position. I mutter a mantra under my breath, trying to clear my mind -

"The first dreadnought's course now intersects with that of one of the carriers... the carrier is changing vector...." M'Rel's voice becomes a shout. "It's turning the wrong way!"

I can see it. On the screen, the nightmarish shape of a Kar'fi carrier blunders inexorably towards one of the smaller escorts - which veers off, suddenly, only to find itself directly in the path of the dreadnought -

- and the carrier changes course again, and lesser ships scatter wildly as it veers across the sky -

- and suddenly, the wall of Fek'lhri ships is in confusion, vessels darting this way and that - and failing to escape.

The first collision is between a K'Norr escort and a Kar'fi, the smaller ship crumpling as it rams into the carrier's armoured flank, the dull red fires of the Fek'lhri drives abruptly paling into invisibility as first the escort, then the carrier, dies in the blinding flash of a core breach. Frigates and fighters flee from the radiation and the expanding cloud of debris - and there is no safe path for them to flee along; all of a sudden, space is alive with lesser collisions, ships exploding or caroming off one another, a sudden chain reaction of crashes and explosions.

Space grows blindingly bright with the eruption of broken warp cores. I can barely see the first dreadnought die, as the chain reaction spreads throughout the Fek'lhri fleet. Even the destruction of those massive vessels is lost in the spreading, seething mass of flame. It is... almost beautiful, in a way. The way so many of those ships seemed to choose exactly the wrong path to take... a ballet, almost, of self-immolation.

My ship trembles, just a little. I check. The navigational deflector is registering minor impacts, scattered fragments of flying debris from the death of the Fek'lhri armada.

Where those ships were, there is now a cloud of cooling flame and shattered wreckage.

The organic parts of Grau's face are radiating smugness. "What was that?" I demand.

"I remembered a chat I had with an old friend," says Grau, "about no-win scenarios. He told me about some of the scenarios he'd planted for the Kobayashi Maru simulation at Starfleet Academy. I remembered the activation code for this one. I don't think it was the one he actually wound up using. Too obvious. Too deus ex machina. But, I figured, it was a no-win scenario all right, so this one was worth a shot."

"S-s-s-s-s. Because it is all about you."

"I had to guess, and I guessed right. So, then, what's our next move?" Vihl and Oschmann are both lost for words, staring at her. I do not know if they are more appalled by her arrogance or her luck.

"Our situation has not materially improved," I say. "I suppose we should examine the wreckage of the Fek fleet, to see if there is useful information to be gleaned. But if it is just some sort of game...." My voice trails off, because something is happening, on the viewscreen.

Lines of light are glittering across the void... insubstantial lines, some a brilliant golden hue, some a pale white, insipid, almost greyish by comparison. Lines spear through the cloud of debris that is all that is left of the Feks... lines surround us on every side... and some of them -

"Are those curved?" I ask, dubiously. "They look curved...."

"Confirmed," says Laska. "It appears to be... a radial grid. Rings and sectors... and each sector is at least ten thousand kellicams across...."

Something is bothering me. I have seen something like this before... I recite another mantra to clear my mind, and then I notice a light flashing on the command console. The Anar is requesting a private comms channel.

I swivel one eye to look at the communications viewscreen. Both Vihl and Grau seem to be preoccupied by something; they are looking off-screen, and Grau's smug look has been replaced by one of worry. The sudden appearance of the glowing lines, perhaps? I cut them out of the audio channel, and turn my attention to Oschmann. The human renegade looks worried, too. "We are experiencing intermittent malfunctions on our drive systems," she says.

"Details?"

"Hard to be certain, sir." Her mouth tightens a little at that. Oschmann is one who does not like uncertainties, and likes even less to admit to them. "Preliminary diagnostics show no problems... but, as we turn onto certain headings, drive output suddenly drops to zero. It is as if... we were being prevented from moving in some directions."

"S-s-s-s-s." Something clicks inside my head. "Perhaps you are." I turn one eye over to the helm station, and the hulking Gorn shape before it. "Talash. Are we experiencing any drive problems?"

"No, sir."

"Test that. Bring us about, in a full turn. Oschmann. Transmit details of the directions in which the power loss occurs." My fingers move on the tactical console, setting up a map. "S-s-s-s-s. I begin to see." I superimpose the glowing grid lines. "Science. Any analysis as yet?"

"Insubstantial," Siowershoe reports, "and low-energy... holographic projections, I believe, sir, though we are at present unable to determine the location of the projector."

"Extend your visual scan. You should see some lines in other colours - green, blue, red."

"Sir?"

"If I am correct, that is what you will see." I cut the audio channel to the Starfleet ships back in. "Grau. Vihl. Are you, by any chance, experiencing difficulties with your engines?"

On my console, the vectors from Oschmann's data appear. One more confirmation.

"How did you know?" Grau demands.

"You are not the only one who can guess right. What is the nature of your problem?"

Grau's thin lips grow thinner. "We're restricted to something under ten per cent of impulse power," she says, "and even that only on a limited range of headings."

"We have similar power losses," Vihl says, "and are completely immobilized if we're turning to... roughly a ninety-degree arc -"

"On you current heading -" I consult my display "- you are unable to make headway between marks two two five and three two five, am I roughly correct?"

"What the hell is happening now?" Grau demands. "If you know something -"

"I am awaiting final confirmation," I say. I look at Talash.

"Turn completed. No unusual activity, no power drains, helm responding normally," the Gorn reports.

"And that is what I needed." I lean back on the command couch. The new cushions squeak and rustle beneath my weight. "The next move. And yes, this is some sort of game. A particular game - Commander Vihl will know it."

"I will?" Vihl looks nonplussed.

"Thev lin, Commander Vihl."

"Waitaminute," says Grau. "Andorian chess?" That comment earns her a dirty look from Vihl.

"Played on a circular board divided into rings and sectors," I say, "in alternating colours of gold and grey. What do we see on our viewscreens? And our ships are, it seems, restricted... so that their abilities correspond to the moves of some of the game pieces."

"What?" says Grau.

"I think I see," says Vihl.

"In the most common translations of the terminology," I say, "my ship is, it appears, the queen, with movement unrestricted in all directions. The Anar is a rook, able to move normally along rank and file - ring and ray, in the terms adapted to the circular board. But her helm will not answer if she attempts to move on a diagonal."

"What about us?" Grau demands.

"Our ships appear to be the two most mobile pieces on the thev lin board. Yours appear to be the two least mobile. The King Estmere is the lesser pawn, able to move only one space, and able only to move around the ring, or inwards towards the centre of the board - the lesser pawn can never retreat. And you, Vice Admiral, command the greater pawn. You may move one space at a time around the ring, and you may move towards the centre along specific sectors - the first and the tenth rays of the thev lin board. On a conventional board, those rays are outlined in red."

I shoot an enquiring look at Siowershoe. "Confirmed," she says, slowly. "I have visual on... red lines. Patching them through to your tactical board now, sir."

I glance down. "We appear to be on the fourth ray... a weary way to go, before we can advance inwards. Well, no matter. Blue and green?" I demand of Siowershoe.

"Two of the - rings - are so marked, sir."

"The blue ring indicates that we approach the centre of the board - we will all find our movements restricted after that point. All pieces advance only one ring at a time after the ninth ring. Commander Vihl, will you enlighten Vice Admiral Grau as to the meaning of the green ring?"

Vihl swallows. "The three outermost rings of the board are... a safe zone," she says. "Pieces in that region can't be attacked. The green line marks the point at which we become subject to attack."

"Commander Vihl is of course correct," I say. "I wonder what form the opponent will take... though I am convinced that an opponent will be provided."

"And we have to fight them, crippled like this?" I did not think it possible for Grau to look any paler or less healthy, but she has managed it.

"You will have assistance, naturally," I say.

"Big of you," Grau mutters. Oschmann stares at me.

"A natural consequence of the rules of the game," I say. "However this variation plays out... we must assume the objectives remain the same. To bear the pieces of the highest value to the safety of the centre." I smile, rather enjoying the lecture. It is obvious that I am alone in this. No matter. "The highest scoring pieces are the ones with least freedom of movement. If this is a game, we must win it - and to do that, Vice Admiral, my ships must work to protect yours." My smile widens. "You may be comforted, Vice Admiral Grau. This remains, as you said - all about you."

Claws 25

Tylha

As soon as dawn breaks, I am at the window, opening the heavy shutter and swinging it back, looking out towards the east. I squint into the sunrise, across the fields, and eventually I spot movement - a toiling figure descending the slope of a hill.
  
One figure. I shoot a worried glance at Zazaru, standing beside me. "I'm going out to see what's happened," I say.

She consults her tricorder. "There's no sign of the, umm, whatever they are, sir," she says, "but I'm reading two non-Klingon life signs."

"Two? I guess that's a good sign - all right, I'm on my way." I check my phaser. I doubt it will do me the slightest bit of good, but the weight at my hip is a reassurance. I head for the door.

Outside, the air is fresh and clear, and the main buildings of the steadhold are starting to stir with life. The child, Nejje, gives me a cheery wave as I lope off across the fields. The stumps of the khala plants look a little taller, already.

I run towards the figure on the hillside, quickening my pace as I make out the details.

Rrueo has rigged a sort of travois, a framework of branches lashed together with some sort of vines, and she is using it to half-carry, half-drag the inert shape of Harley Haught across the ground. She is moving slowly, with immense care and deliberation, her wiry feline frame almost vibrating under the strain. She bares her teeth in greeting as I approach.

"About time," she says. "He is heavy."

Haught's face is pale and waxy, his eyes half-closed, his breathing harsh and irregular. I stand next to Rrueo, and she shuffles sideways to let me take some of the burden. "What happened?"

"We were attacked, by the servitors. Little cloaked shadows, with blades on their arms. No minds, or nothing that Rrueo could touch. Harley Haught was stabbed. Rrueo has done what she could with her field medkit, but there are deep penetrating wounds, and he requires more care."

"How did you escape?"

"Rrueo has thoughts about that. Rrueo will explain, once we are done here."

We drag the travois together, down the hill and across the fields, and I try to close my ears to Haught's groans as, no matter how careful we are, we jostle him or jolt him on some unexpected obstacle. Rrueo's breathing hisses beside me. The Ferasan is tense, and tired... and, from her body language, very, very angry.

Zazaru and the KDF medic Siowxayer are waiting for us. "Two deep stab wounds, in the abdomen," Rrueo snaps at the Lissepian. "Take precautions for bacterial infections, and do what you can about the loss of blood." As we hand Haught over, she leans close to him, her face close to his. "Harley Haught," she says, "listen to me. You are not going to die. You do not have my permission to die." Haught's lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. We watch as the medics take him into the building.

"Rrueo needs water," Rrueo says. Her tail cuts the air as it switches to and fro. I pass her a canteen, and she drinks, greedily.

"We tried to kill you," she says, once the canteen is empty.

I stare at her, hard. "What?"

"Rrueo tells you the worst first, so that you will know Rrueo speaks the truth now. We tried to kill you." Her lip curls in a feline sneer. "You are, after all, still the enemy." Then her expression turns sullen. "Or you were. We have other problems now."

I fight down a rising anger - she is right about the other problems. "Do you want to explain?" I snap at her.

"We doctored the record of R'j's court martial. The carriers exploded at a distance of one hundred and twenty kellicams. Not fifty."

"I see." My nostrils flare. "So you got me to take King Estmere in past that safe limit."

"We did not know if it would work, and in fact it did not." Rrueo strokes her whiskers with one claw. "There were other edits - little things. The names of the lost carriers, for instance. It does no harm for Starfleet Intelligence to think some ships are destroyed when they are not. And, of course, it helps that Mlkwbrians are impossible to lip-read." She pronounces the name of R'j's species with ease.

"What else-?"

Rrueo sighs. "The plan was to stage-manage Federation involvement in Tiaza Zephora. Initially, we wanted to infiltrate R'j aboard your ship or the Falcon, pretending that she was a potential defector - she would then have been in a position to guide your investigations and report on them. Your sudden arrival at Duselva WX rather derailed that plan - we have been improvising ever since." Her tone suddenly sharpens. "The important thing you should know - is that Rrueo scanned the Duselva WX system before your arrival. Rrueo scanned it thoroughly. There were no ruins on the third planet."

My anger fades as the implications of that wash over me. Bits of Rrueo's behaviour suddenly start to make sense to me - "No wonder you've been tense," I say slowly.

Rrueo nods. "The sleeping giant is a reality manipulator on a prodigious scale," she says. "Rrueo's suggestion, to be honest, would be to leave it and hope it continues to sleep - but that is not R'j's way. Rrueo takes it, by the way, that there has been no sign of the ships?"

"No. And we don't have a subspace transmitter capable of reaching Starfleet -"

"We are thrown upon our own resources, then. Fortunately," she adds, "there is hope. You wondered how Rrueo survived the night intact?"

"I did."

"So did Rrueo. Rrueo has a high estimate of her own capabilities, but she does not believe she is more formidable than Juregh's entire assault force. The question arises, then, what makes Rrueo so special that the sleeping giant's servitors do not dare to attack her? Rrueo had many hours to contemplate that question."

"And?"

"What is different about Rrueo? What happened to Rrueo, that did not happen to Harley Haught? Let Rrueo give you a clue: Rrueo can still smell it on her fur."

My eyes narrow. "The chiral compound?"

"It plays some role in the sleeping giant's... biology, for want of a better word. The mirror image version is necessary for it in some way... this version, though, is - noxious, perhaps. That is why it needed the colonists and their chemical processing machines. The extensions of the sleeping giant's will - the hands, or the claws, of the overlord - cannot interact with it directly."

"So," I say, "we have a potential defence, then."

Rrueo grins, exposing her fangs. "Yes. And a potential defence - is a potential weapon."

---

Inside the guest house, they have laid Haught down on a table, and the medics are clustered around him. Zazaru looks up at me briefly, flashes a thumbs-up sign, and turns back to her work.

I walk to the little office, sit down, and start to think. We need to investigate the chemical plant more thoroughly - to discover how the waste compound is processed, once it is extracted - to get as much of it for ourselves as we can -

And there are other things we must try to discover. If we can work out how the entity - the sleeping giant - distorts the molecule of the tellurium compound... then maybe we can work out how it affects space-time itself, how it manipulates reality... and maybe we can defend ourselves against that.

I shake my head. We are dealing with a being that can materialize a continent-spanning artifact at a range of several parsecs - and all we have is our paltry few pieces of field equipment -

There is a knock at the door. I look up. It is T'Shomep. "Sir," she says.

"Yes?"

"I have been engaged in study of the colony's history," she says. "I have discovered something which may be of interest."

"What is it?"

"I have established the date of the overlord's arrival on the planet," T'Shomep says. "In converting it to standard Federation stardates, I became aware of a coincidence. In the circumstances, I believe it may not simply be a coincidence." She pauses. "The date of the entity's arrival is the same date that the USS Jayhawk, under the command of then Captain Grau, entered the temporal anomaly known as the Stygmalian Rift."